Vibroblades and Mirrors
by Mister Buch
Summary: KotOR 2 short fic, showing the ending at Malachor V from various character POV's. Mostly this is based on some of the scenes that were cut from the finished game, including Atton's fight with Sion. Enjoy!
1. The Fool

Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic

* * *

Vibroblades and Mirrors

* * *

.

Atton Rand spits blood onto the floor, his eyes still closed. Without thinking, he rolls his tongue around his mouth and the across back of his teeth, then swallows. He has done that plenty of times, usually on his back in the most tactically-efficient spot of a cantina. Usually there's a little Juma juice mixed into the taste.

Lately, though, he hasn't been getting smacked around like this. It's all blaster-burns now. Vibro-cuts if the Sith goons are in town, but no lightsaber amputations so far, luckily. Sometimes electric shocks and weird Force stuff that feels more like a sickness than a hit. Jedi weapons. War wounds.

For the moment, Atton doesn't even know where he is. There's something soothing and quiet at the back of his mind, trying to guide him to awareness and heal him, but he doesn't trust it. Wiping dust from his eyes, he presses a hand to the ground and looks right at a vision of hell.

Oh yeah. Malachor Five. The crash. The viewscreen.

Great.

The _Ebon Hawk_ is nowhere to be seen now. He lies on a lump of dark-grey rock that has ended up shaped more or less like a bridge.

Where is she?

Atton has been a dropout, a scoundrel, a Republic soldier, a Sith hero and a real nasty murderer. After that the roles kind of blended together, and now there's a lightsaber on his belt, pressing uncomfortably into his thin thigh. He's using the damn _Force_ to get himself together and silence a headache, and he's croaking the name of a Jedi knight he loves. And this time, it _is_ that kind of love.

Just for once, it would be nice to have some stability. He should be playing pazaak right now, but he's kind of given up the habit. Now it feels like playing one-man-fesyk: there's no opponent, so what's the point?

He yells her name, but doesn't know why. She's not here. By now she's either at the heart of Darth Sion's academy or she's dead on the ship. For a moment it occurs to Atton that this is the first time he's ever addressed her by her first name. Maybe he didn't want to get too close.

At that thought, he has to laugh. He's on all fours, now, head curled between his shoulders and facing the floor. He didn't want to get too close.

It's true, he really didn't. Normally with women, he moves pretty fast… how long has he known her now? Nothing more than a knowing look or a cute little hint. Taking it slow. But he's happy to fly her ship, fight on the frontline by her side, tell her all his secrets and give himself over to the way of the Jedi. Solemn pledges, lightsaber training. Yeah, that's all fine, but no kissing. He's biding his damn time.

He spent most of his off-time observing her, until he got caught out. He remembers the schoolboy embarrassment as he recognised Mira sneaking up behind him, ruining the hand he was mentally playing. _You know, Atton? Sometimes it's no wonder you can't figure yourself out? The way you lie to yourself all the time._

Real pain in the exhaust, that Mira. Stupid questioning intonation, stupid headband thing. Dresses funny, too. Trying to make herself stand-out, looking for guidance. So Atton figures, anyway. It's a wonder she survived on Nar Shadaa. Maybe she gets the bright-coloured-clothing thing from the Mandos.

Heh. That green shirt will actually work as camouflage here.

_And _stop _watching her. She's got enough problems_.

Right about that, though. The boss has definitely got enough to deal with without some guy checking her out from behind the wall. And there really is no question: she could do better than him. Obviously she could do a lot worse, like say, a creepy, blond Core Worlds kid in a vest. Obviously. But there have to be better men out there than Atton Rand. Some kind of big protector guy. Tall, no past. Everyone on the _Ebon Hawk_ has a past.

Something the two of them do have in common is a whole lot of self pity. Not justified in her case. All she did was flip a switch and end a war. He didn't blame her at the time, sure doesn't blame her now. She's really something.

Simultaneously training four people to fight like Jedi, that was really something too. Finding the right people. Visas, the Zabrak and Mira, maybe even Blondie, they were going to make decent Jedi. The 'influence' she's been whining about has nothing to do with the Force. It's her, it always has been. She's a beacon.

When Atton first met her, he didn't have any Force flowing through him and neither did she. She was just a strong, compassionate and kinda angry gal with a fusion cutter. In a wet jumpsuit. From that moment he was hers, Jedi or no.

_And you scratch your… equipment, when you think no-one's looking._

Yeah. With any luck he'll bump into the others eventually and they can move forward together. Right now he could sure use their help. And Mira knows how to track a target. A familiar queasiness comes back to Atton as he thinks about that. No-one had gotten close to figuring him out in years. Not Kreia, not himself. This one knows how to track a target.

And next time he's getting a Jedi lesson and feeling all sentimental, he's going to give more away. Get all serious again. And eventually, the woman whose name he never uses will know what he's all about. She can forgive a lot, but this will be something else entirely. This is his personality.

He's damn romantic, when he wants to be. Maybe she'll like that. When he called her an Angel, he wasn't kidding. Only threw the punchline on there once he'd heard it out loud. But that's the only thing he's proud of. Someday she's going to have to see all the _real_ bad stuff inside him.

It's one thing to hear about the time he murdered Jedi, another to understand just how much he liked it. And it's not even like he's particularly sorry about it. See how she feels when she gets _that_. See if she wants any more than a meaningful glance then.

Wiping more dust from his sleeve, Atton stands up.

He's heading out to walk right into a dark Jedi hive. All alone, too. There's lightning every few seconds, pieces of rock and old ships jutting out of the landscape at sharp angles. Malachor. This is where it all started, of course.

Time to get lost.


	2. The Huntress

Hanharr's body is finally still, cut up and cauterised, and she's sad about it. The smell of his hair burning was with her all through the fight. It nearly threw her off a couple times.

For a moment, Mira contemplates cutting off the slave-binders he wears on his wrists. But, no, that would be ridiculous. Better to just leave the poor guy there. She's paid him back, you know. That's the end of that. He'd probably be happy with the way it turned out.

Can't win 'em all.

It just would have been nice to give him a better ending than _that_.

She moves on swiftly, her attention on her stuff now. Lightsaber securely fastened, heavy blaster still on the side. Wrist-mounted rocket launcher. The hell kind of padawan learner has one of those? Doesn't matter, she might need them. As much as she'd like to rely on her three or four days of fencing practice, she probably ought to work every angle here.

The Jedi hasn't gotten far. Mira can tell, when she concentrates. It's kinda like hearing her footsteps… that's the best way she can describe it now, anyways. Like hearing her. She's moving slow, stopping every minute or so. That may have something to do with the handy trail of dead lizards she's been leaving.

Man, it would be good to have her a little closer. This really isn't Mira's kind of place. No life to it. The Jedi's footsteps are the only thing she can sense here, and it makes them seem pretty special. Not that they aren't. It's just… this planet.

Mira allows herself to close her eyes. There are sheer cliff-faces on either side, Hanharr lying behind her. She outstretches her fingers.

And now there are whispers all over the planet. Things she never noticed. The lizard things looking for food, or something like it. Someone worrying a ways ahead of her, but she can't make anything out. Maybe it's some sort of Sith scout. Then the target's footsteps, a little closer. With them, slightly laboured breaths.

With a deep breath of her own, Mira stretches further, her hands stiffening without her realising it. And suddenly, there's a whole lot going on. There's screaming somewhere. Fear, lots of that. She doesn't even know if this is stuff that's going on now, or if it's just leftovers from the battle that destroyed the planet.

There's too much to concentrate on. Her hand shaking a touch, Mira keeps listening and breathing, a little less evenly. Maybe she can focus here… get something useful. Out of nowhere, she feels a vacuum in the Force, something she can't understand but which scares her half to death. There's so much grief in this thing… so much death… and another...

_I can feel this... planet... I can't shut it out! It's louder now… it hurts!_

And now Mira is terrifed beyond words. She's a little girl again at the end of a blaster carbine. She's throwing mines down, running for her life. Dangling in a psychopath's fist over a tall building. Trapped._  
_

She lets go, flexes a little and coughs. Still shaking.

The Jedi is ahead, and she could probably use a hand. This will count as on-the-job training, anyway.

Leaving the Force alone for a minute, she gets her bearings the old-fashioned way and walks slowly. She looks over her shoulder once more at Hanharr. He's really dead this time. Maybe he's at peace. Wow, she's really doing this now, huh. Jedi training.

Is the Exile her 'master'? That's actually scarier than what she was sensing just now. Shouldn't it be 'mistress' anyway? No.

_One can live their whole life with such echoes, Mira. But I can teach you to accept them._

She's a friend, is what she is. And she's as good a sentient being as she's ever known. And she's teaching Mira how to be like her. Stronger.

Yeah, a master. For the time being, Mira needs one. She's damn lucky she found such a good one.


	3. The Exile

A woman in her thirties kneels on the stone floor of Trayus Academy. By channelling the Force through her body, she is able to sooth the deep cut in her belly and slow the blood flow. Her skin, willed by the universe around it, grows membranes and enforces them. An image of Darth Sion flits into her thoughts. Kreia's heir.

A few seconds later, the former Jedi is standing. It's a good thing; there are more Sith coming. Behind the doors, she is aware of seven men and two women, all twisted so that they barely feel human to her.

Her lightsaber stands out against the eleven red ones about to burst through the doors. She holds it gently, blinks twice and prepares herself for the confrontation.

In the time it takes to assume a classic Soresu stance, the horde of crazed Sith students are upon her. Saber Form Three: defence. The first form her master ever taught her. He said a Jedi should begin any conflict in this position.

She can feel the indignant vitriol inside them. Their minds screech at her like hawk-bats as they slash from all directions, baring teeth.

With uncanny speed and a perfect procedural memory, the woman in the brown robes blocks every attack. Her small boots jump backwards twice while she feints with the blade. In her next move she manages to strike one of her attackers on the shoulder.

A weapon gets too close to her face and she switches to Form Four. With a quick stab and a high grunt, she kills the girl who nearly hit her, and then takes the legs from the young man on the other side whose gleeful anticipation gave him away. Her left hand leaves the blade for a second and hurls one of the others into the far wall, neck first. The bearded one with the broken shoulder is still stunned, and she carves into him with a flurry of three swipes.

The remaining attackers step back and finally start thinking about tactics. She catches up with two of them and cuts them down, then makes eye contact with the other three.

Her sword twirls, threatening. She senses their fear. They haven't been trained to guard against it. In fact, they're trying to use it to their advantage. Revan's philosophy. Broken chains. Power. She remembers seeing it in the Dark Lord's eyes when it was brand new.

Better not give them time to do whatever their masters taught them. With a speed they aren't expecting, she rushes them and again finds herself guarding against their ferocious attacks.

Her form is in flux now. The youngsters' fear is starting to get to her. She jumps back again.

The Sith are eyeing her, heads cocked, like Onderonian beast-riders trying to cage a drexyl. She kills them, as quickly as she can.

When it is done she takes a moment to calm her mind. The rooms around her are empty now. Thank the Force. She has killed so many getting here.

With a deep, nasal breath, she wraps her robe around herself. She remembers buying the garment on Dantooine, just before the battle for Khoonda. The old Jedi nostalgia was really flooding into her at the time. She bought it from the talkative Rodian chap at the base, along with some bed sheets and three modified vibroblades which he folded into them for safety.

It was so disheartening, buying those rather disparate items from the same merchant. It hadn't even seemed odd to the Rodian. Weapons of war were just general supply now. Necessary for survival on Dantooine.

And on so many other worlds. Worlds the Force has ruined.

She thinks about the Masters, in that final meeting at the Enclave, and wonders again what to think of it. It is hard to condemn them, as Kreia had, though she knew they had been wrong. And they had died for it.

Kreia, or Traya, or whoever she is… just destroyed them, spitting her contempt and crushing their connections to the Force. Watching it happen to someone else had been agony.

And she doesn't even know why… what is Kreia's goal? Has she been a slave to the dark side all along, nothing more than the mastermind of the Sith triumvirate? Why did she destroy Atris; sheer spite? And what had been the meanings of the visions on Korriban?

She has no idea. She has failed to comprehend her master's training, once again. And she's here at Malachor, again. Killing. Nothing holding her together. Same as always.

Just a few more wounds between herself and her enemies.

Kreia is no Sith Lord. But she's certainly not a Jedi. There are no Jedi left. Just Atris and Kreia, her and Sion.

_... a Sith Lord who looks like he sleeps with vibroblades.._.

If only Atton were with her now. As usual, she can't sense his thoughts. Where _is_ he?


	4. The Heir

_I will remake you. So when I look upon you it shall be like a mirror. Then I shall let you die._

The fool's spine is cracked; not enough to kill him but he is starting to lose consciousness. No matter. This one is adamant. He will survive as long as he can, without hope or purpose.

That is admirable. With the Force Lord Sion lashes out, ripping open the fool's skin in great gashes. Fresh blood slides over sweat onto his face. He is laughing. Delerium. Or perhaps the pain is making him stronger.

He drops the captive to the floor. Their lightsaber fight was pathetic, barely an exercise for the Dark Lord. But perhaps he can be used to hurt the Exile. And the Exile can be used to hurt Traya. Spinning around, Sion cuts an inch into the fool's chest with the tip of his saber. The scream is good.

The Force sustains Sion's body. By rights now it should be dead. His grip on life requires an effort, but he barely notices it now. It has become second nature. Enduring agony has become like breathing to him. Mastery of the dark side is like a language.

The Exile's presence is disturbing. The tranquillity of it enrages him, gains him strength. But presence is the wrong word to describe it. She is like a blissful silence, flowing gently toward him and his master. It is extraordinary. It should not exist.

They are different but alike.

He shall protect one from the other. He no longer knows which.

Darth Traya is returned, despite her being cast out from this place, despite the Force being ripped from her grasp, despite the loss of her hand. And she has taken command of Sion's academy, his minions. And once again, his mind.

She was a far greater teacher than he has been. He prefers to use the weaker ones as assassins and servants. Now perhaps she will make them more powerful. It is a good thing.

He has been ordered to wait here. Lord Nihilus is dead now, so the remaining master and student have come together. It is better this way. It was Revan's way. _One to embody power_, he had said, _and the other to crave it_.

Traya is power. A blind exile who defeated the Lord of Pain with words alone. A pathetic Jedi historian who birthed the darkness within Revan. A disfigured old woman whose dark side controls armies and men.

She is watching him now, he knows. Peering into his thoughts. Inside his head, eroding whatever thoughts she chooses. He is powerless. He wonders what she is thinking.

Just as Revan was, Sion is her chosen apprentice. He thought he had outgrown her, defeated her. Now that Nihilus is no more, he has been proven wrong. He has tried to overthrow her, and brought her only disapointment. Perhaps now she is in his mind, she knows that he can never defeat her.

The Exile comes to her.

Perhaps the Exile shall bring Traya's death. There is a power he cannot comprehend within her emptiness.

Or perhaps Sion will destroy them both.

There is a twitch, not of his doing, at the back of the Dark Lord's thoughts. He does not understand what it means. He does not know what Kreia would have him do. Why is she here? Why pit the two apprentices against one another?

He has never understood. He does not see as his master does.

And perhaps he can never even hurt her. Kreia sees without eyes, wields blades with one hand. If Sion ever truly injures her, her revenge will be glorious.

Perhaps... the Exile is that revenge.

She has regained the Force. She embodies power.

The dark side flows and eddies inside him, pools in the painful gaps of his greyed skin. It animates his muscles and powers his resolve. Without thinking, he cuts fresh gashes into the fool on the floor, snapping and bending him so that perhaps he will understand. Breaking the skin.

He has little time for this. He must prepare himself for her.


	5. The Historian

_What do you wish to hear? That I once believed in the code of the Jedi? That I felt the call of the Sith, that perhaps, once, I held the galaxy by its throat? That for every good work that I did, I brought equal harm upon the galaxy? That perhaps what the greatest of the Sith Lords knew of evil, they learned from me?_

The room Kreia stands in, once a throne room for ancient masters, is very ostentatious. It is odd that neither of the other Dark Lords ever made this place his own. Certainly Revan would not have cared for it.

Nihilus and Sion are dead now. The greater learner has slain them both, and now she prepares herself to face the Sith ringmaster. Darth Traya. It will not be much of a battle. The Lords of Pain and Hunger were far grander adversaries.

The betrayer. 'Traya' was not a particularly subtle choice of name, but then, Kreia had never been creative. And it was fitting enough; the Sith had always been bluntly powerful, with a few notable exceptions. She flatters herself she may be remembered as one of these, if nothing else.

Beginning as a helpless child forced into greatness, as all Jedi do, Kreia had gone on to become a gifted student and a successful, if solitary, warrior. She then became a keeper of knowledge, and finally a teacher. When her most famous pupil came to her, everything changed. She was abandoned by him and betrayed by the Council. She followed him to the dark side and then back from it, when her new apprentices betrayed her again. Since then her path has taken her back here, but with a good purpose. Her own.

Her new apprentice, her second greatest, does not use her real name unless she has to. She is simply 'the exile'. 'The _Jedi_ exile' to those unfamiliar with her. Darth Traya would prefer not to use the nickname, but it would be hypocritical of her. A short distance beyond the door to this room, her presence is obvious, screaming its nothingness. And there is a sadness Kreia is not used to.

Of course, this place marks the beginning of her fall, along with so many other great deaths. This place saw the fall of the Jedi heroes, the opening of all Force wounds. The activation of the Mass Shadow Generator which haunts the girl so. All the _Ebon Hawk's_ sad stories begin here. Not in this silly room, however.

Sion died without his pain. Interesting, if a waste of the Exile's energy. Nihilus had simply died. Perhaps his wound was beyond her healing efforts.

Now that the screaming of Sion and his followers is finished, she focuses instead on the thoughts of the Exile's crew. They are strewn about and panicked, but all with steely determination to reach their leader. Mostly they are alone.

Atton… is close by, suddenly visible to her. Dying. Ah… now she understands what she saw earlier. It was he who Sion had been trying to break. Good.

And Kreia sees the Exile's sadness in a new light. It is simply a broken personal attachment. They are together for now, as their awkward romantic entanglement finally comes to its unsatisfying end.

There is great shame in Atton, as usual, but now it is not hidden. She is calming it very quickly. _Always was ugly…_ Kreia hears. _Now the outside matches._ Quite.

_Was s'posed to save you._ Oh? And then a response she can't make out. _I don't want you to see me like this!_

And for perhaps the first time, Kreia feels some empathy with the wretch. She stands in a grand hall carved from a cave, dressed in old Jedi robes she dyed black herself. Blackened eyes. Imposing statues carved like claws appear to close around her. She would have preferred not to appear in this guise. Not at this moment. Not to face the Exile.

_I don't wanna… die in front of you!_

Indeed.

And Sion had been thinking something similar in his last moments. The huntress, too, as she fought the animal.

There is a new emotion ruling the wasteland of Malachor now. This is not pain or anger or sorrow, but a subtler, softer thing. A fear. Fear of… disappointment. The Exile commands extraordinary respect, whether she means to or not, in her strange set of disciples. Now they race to help her, terrified to be apart from her influence. Wanting to be there at the end of their adventure. Wanting it to be tremendous. To _impress_ her.

This is a mood of the Force that Kreia has never known to be so concentrated. She smiles as the emotion seeps across the landscape.

_Hurts… when I laugh._

Without any particular purpose or plan, the lost Jedi students followed their master here. And she, in turn, followed Kreia. She who, it was foolish to deny it, had come because of her own apprentice.

The apprentice who had changed her. The one who she had taught to be a bold protector, who had become the greatest tactician and most powerful Force-wielder of his generation, or any in memory. A man who had saved the galaxy before bringing it to its knees. Who had been interrupted at a crucial moment, taken mere weeks to regain his strength, and then left. Following no-one.

The apprentice who became the master.

In her own way, Kreia had been hoping that this planet would allow her to see Revan once more. Sadly, she cannot, though her solitude in this room has granted her some vision of possible futures.

Taking a silent, deep breath, Kreia uses the dark power of Malachor against its will, to glance serenely ahead. At the future, as best it can be seen.

In a moment, she sees falls and new beginnings, invasions and heroes, Jedi knights and warlords. Always wars. She notes the resilience of Revan's Sith and the slow death of the Mandalorians and Republic both. Now that the huntress has slain her prey, snatches of her life are visible as well. Curious. But there is nothing for Atton now but silence.

The Exile's future is still in motion, and even then it seems unclear. Kreia can only determine a perplexing vision of the _Ebon Hawk_ leaving this place. It flits out from the deepest caverns of the planet and drifts away into space, its heading unknown. Who, she wonders, is piloting it?

Kreia ponders the meaning of this, for a moment.

Nothing. A pity.


	6. The Master

Revan leans back on a stone statue of Marka Ragnos, lets his head press against it. It's not comfortable but it lets him rest. Breathing open-mouthed, he tears the feltite strap off of a scuffed red box.

His last life-support pack. Ominous. Well, Revan always preferred to call them 'medkits', anyway. His last medkit.

Inside he finds a few stims, two of which he immediately injects just above his bleeding stomach. It's been a while since he's bled. Or so he assumes; most of his memories are still false ones. Certainly there hasn't been any actual bleeding since the Endar Spire. It's all lightsabers in his line of work.

The Sith Marauders have moved on. These aren't like the men he once commanded, to whom he hubristically bestowed the same name. These are monsterous. His betrayal here outside their base nearly finished him. Whoever tipped the squad off is irrelevant now. He's been found out and defeated. Out-planned.

It's been a long time since Revan lost a fight. Turns out he also has a knack for escape, though. Time to heal up, get back to the ship and start again. He's done it before.

The name of this planet varies depending on who one asks. Coruscant has never heard of it. The only people who have are true Sith and those souls who are foolish enough to look before they leap. The kind of people who take slaves to help them build shipyards fuelled by the dark Force. Guys who go wandering into ancient ruins behind their masters' backs, wearing home-made red and black costumes. Guys who add 'Darth' to their names without knowing what it means.

This is an ancient stronghold and monastary. It makes Korriban look amateurish, makes the battle at Malachor V seem poorly-handled. It's through the edges of the old Empire which battled the Republic in the Hyperspace Wars. The first wars. It's where the first doubting Jedi came after they met the unfortunate Sith species and stole their name. Where those first traitors turned after fleeing their teachers. Where it all began.

The statue is now causing Revan's head more pain than comfort. He wraps a kolto-soaked dressing around himself and pulls away. Ragnos' angular, weathered likeness seems to glare downwards at him, sun shining behind its head. The half-human face snarls, teeth bared and fist clenched around a jagged sword. The neck is arched back, the legs bent, lips pulled open. The surface of it is fissured all over. Who knows what holds it together after all this time.

'Relax, Marka,' he says, revealing only a smile and a thick cowl to the Dark Lord. 'If the wind changes you'll look like that forever. If it helps, I'm not feeling too great either.' Or was it Marko?

Revan shakes his head. 'Marko?' he asks. 'I can't remember which is right. Sorry. Sith Lord standards have really dropped since your day.'

The bedroll he brought with him was at the old camp. By now it might have been torn apart. He's sleeping on the floor, then.

And he _really_ needs to sleep. Finding a relatively flat spot by Ragnos' foot, Revan lies down and sighs deeply.

Some voice at the back of his mind calls to him mournfully. Something from his forgotten life, he suspects. Ever since the battle at the Star Forge, the memories have been returning. Some of them are crippling. Malak never leaves his thoughts. But this is just... some sad voice. Not quite distinct enough. Some sense of shame. Someone he must have known but now cannot remember.

He's so far away from Republic space now. That this voice can reach him here... she must be someone he cared for. In his own inadequate way, he tries to comfort her with the Force.

This has been a long, long mission. Undertaking it alone has been the hardest part. Revan isn't humble enough to pretend he's not formidable, but he doesn't work as well by himself. He's better with people behind him or in a strike team of two. Maybe three.

Coming here alone was painful for those he left behind. Now, knowing that he can still feel someone back there unnerves him. He doesn't want the one he left behind to see him here bleeding. If only he had been _any_one else. Had _any_ other past. He would have stayed with her for good. He knows he has let her down plenty of times. Hopefully when he returns from this, she'll love him all the more.

His saviour.

The position he lies in is not helping matters. His belly feels cold now, his head light. Silently this time, Revan shifts over and closes his eyes.

As he relaxes he sees a clear, precise image, wonders if his Force bond is still with him. He hears a familiar greeting. It's warm and defensive at the same time. Brave yet angry. Animal but trained. It has a really cute accent.

_How can I help?_

Revan tries to chuckle but ends up coughing.

.

In a sparsely-decorated apartment on Telos, the last of the Jedi moves her gaze to the window. She isn't looking, exactly. She's seen it all before. Lately, it seems like the restoration project has slowed down. Maybe it will never finish its work.

Deadlines.

She has brought her old Cross of Glory to this new accomodation, as she takes it everywhere. She was taught to shun material attachments, but never mind. She absently squeezes it now, thinking back.

_We Jedi now have another tale to weave into the grand history of our order. The redemption of Revan, the prodigal knight! Wherever you go, you will be recognised as the saviours of the Galaxy. The heroes of our age._

_But you must remain ever vigilant, for one day you may be called upon yet again to defend the glory of the Republic against the tyranny of the dark side._

_For this is the destiny of the Jedi._

So much has changed. So many have been lost. The memory makes her smile, despite everything.

Before she turns away from the window, Bastila's last thoughts are of her father. She sees a desert in her mind's eye. The bones of a krayt dragon under the twin suns of Tatooine.


End file.
